


the burning boats are gone and lost

by ElisAttack



Category: Fantastic Beasts and Where to Find Them (Movies)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Always a Different Sex, Boats and Ships, Explicit Sexual Content, F/F, Fae & Fairies, Family Secrets, Fanart, Irish Mythology - Freeform, Kinda, Lesbian Sex, Massage, Merpeople, Merperson Credence Barebone, Mystery, Post-Canon, Sailing
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-07-28
Updated: 2017-07-29
Packaged: 2018-12-07 21:25:24
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 13,674
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11632218
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ElisAttack/pseuds/ElisAttack
Summary: Before she knows it, a stinging slash has her gripping her arm to her chest, a trickle of blood trailing down her skin, dripping to the sand below.  The woman looks at her with eyes of the darkest black, mistrust in their depths.  Her nails, Merlin… not her nails, herclawsare like knives, curled and vicious.Her heart stops in her chest.  “You needn't fear me,”  Graves raises her palms, unsure of whether this creature understands what she’s saying, “I won’t hurt you.”Or the one where Graves lives by the ocean, recovering after Grindelwald turned her life upside down.  One day she finds a woman with a mysterious past, searching desperately for something that belongs to her.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> I've been wanting to write a Merrow inspired fic ever since I found my old copy of _Faeries._ ([Here's](http://iamonlydancing.tumblr.com/post/163504414972/modern-faerie-tales-merrows-by-brian-froud-and) the page from the book about Merrows.) I wanted to remain true to mythology, but to do that and write a m/m fic, the Merrowed character would have to be ugly af—as in they would have a fish's head, instead of a human one.
> 
> Since writing _a modern woman_ I've wanted to explore Graves and Credence as ladies more and more, so here's some lesbian gradence with a touch of Merrow!
> 
> Rated explicit for the second chapter.
> 
> Title from Thus Owls - Smoke Like Birds

_The female Merrows are very beautiful and, like other mermaids, appear before storms as an omen, but they are gentle by nature and often fall in love with mortal fishermen…_

—Brian Froud and Alan Lee, _Faeries_

***

***

The ocean surges against the sandy banks, never ending and steady as a metronome.  The sound reminds her of the magical artefacts she kept in her former office.

There was one that she purchased when she had been a junior auror, still wet behind the ears.  The dealer had said it was cursed, that it would drive any man who owned it mad.  He kept it in a lead box, and when he opened it to reveal a brass spyglass, Graves had laughed.

When she had put her eye to the dragon-glass scope, nothing could be seen, instead a faint roaring could be heard.  It seemed to originate from inside her head—it had sounded like the ocean.  She had purchased the scope, figuring what harm could possibly come from it—the last time she had checked, she was no man.

It still sits on a shelf in the room that was her office, in the building that was once her entire life.  She wasn’t allowed to take anything when she was retired early.  Her possessions are evidence, her Greenwich Village flat—a crime scene, abed with dark magic.  After being stored in her closet for months, tortured by her own unfaithful wand for MACUSA’s secrets, she could not help but agree.  She had to leave the city, at least for a little while.  Eventually, that little while turned into a year.

Her family has maintained a cottage in Provincetown since its early beginnings as a fishing settlement.  The town sits on the very tip of Cape Cod—the flicking cat tail of Massachusetts.  The sunsets roil when a storm brews, and the ocean stretches uninterrupted for miles upon miles until the shores of Portugal emerge on the horizon.  She used to summer here in her youth, when her father was still alive, before her sister, Dindrane, moved to the west coast to fulfill her dreams of movie stardom.

The sand between her toes still retains the heat from the day, though it rapidly cools as the sun sits heavy and red on the horizon.  Her mother used to say there’s so much sand on Provincetown, one could easily believe they were lost in the Sahara if it wasn’t for the cloying taste of salt in the air.

Graves carries her brogues in her hand, swinging her arms, as she walks the long stretch of beach in front of her cottage.  She’s framed by no-majs on all sides.  The Porters to the east.  Mr. Warner and his much younger mistress to the west.

They’re the talk of the town.  Every time Graves makes the trip for dinner, Marge of the Whaler’s Wharf corners her alone at her booth, talking nonstop about what a scandal it is.  Even more scandalous than when Graves rolled into town in a three piece suit wearing her hair even shorter than a flapper’s.  Marge had spilled clam chowder down the front of her apron the first time Graves had walked into her restaurant.  They’ve come a long way since then.

Graves is not one for gossip.  When she sees the older Mr. Warner and his lady out in their sloop, working together to make her fly through the waves, she sees a man with a recently deceased wife, and a woman that can make the pain go away, at least for a little while.  Sometimes Graves wishes she focused less on her career, and more on the relationships she always let dissolve away, just so she wouldn’t be alone during this tumultuous point in her life.

The wind kicks up, eddying sand around the banks, prophesying an incoming storm.  Through it all, Graves hears a different kind of splashing.  She looks off into the horizon.

Her eyes widen when she spots a mess of wildly waving arms and bobbing black hair.  She drops her shoes, and is already pulling her necktie from around her neck by the time she makes it to the water.  After years spent summering near the ocean, Graves would recognize a drowning person from a mile away.

The figure disappears beneath the surf, and Graves kicks her legs harder.  She dives blindly, her fingers outstretched, hoping to grasp an arm, a leg, anything.  Strands of hair float about her wrist.  She reaches beyond, to rough fabric—and beneath it all—warm skin.  She grabs the flesh beneath her palms and throws her legs out, kicking powerfully.

She breaks the surface of the water with a loud gasp, but the person she’s holding doesn’t make a sound.  She swims for the shore.

She lays the person out on the shore, the waves beating at their heels.

She has no pulse, and she’s pale, paler than any human has the right to be.  Her hair is dark, messy.  It clings in strands to her body and across her face, like a corpse wrapped in seaweed.  She wears what appears to be a tangled fishing net on her upper body that doesn’t manage to hide the curve of her breasts and dark nipples, cinched with a belt of some strange dark leather.  Nothing covers her lower half, and Graves would blush if she wasn’t currently preoccupied with saving a life.

Graves works quietly, performing compressions on the woman’s chest, counting under her breath, the waves echoing in her ears, helping her keep time.

She tips the woman’s head back, and whispers, “ _Anapneo_ ,” a bit of wandless magic hoping to clear her airway, but all that trails from her mouth is salt water.  Graves breathes into a cold mouth, and the woman’s chest lifts.  Prone limbs jerk like a ragdoll as Graves works, sweat beading along her forehead, hidden by the water dripping from her hair.  Another breath.  She shivers, but continues to work, determination making her focused.  She’ll be damned if she lets yet another person die on her watch.

The woman coughs terribly, her body thrashing with the force of it.

Graves sits back on her heels, watching with wide eyes as the woman turns on her side, emptying her stomach of water.  She reaches out, hoping to get that long hair out of the way, but before she knows it, a stinging slash has her gripping her arm to her chest, a trickle of blood trailing down her skin, dripping to the sand below.  The woman looks at her with eyes of the darkest black, mistrust in their depths.  Her nails, Merlin… not her nails, her _claws_ are like knives, curled and vicious.

Her heart stops in her chest.  “You needn't fear me,”  Graves raises her palms, unsure of whether this creature understands what she’s saying, “I won’t hurt you.”

The woman hisses, displaying teeth that quickly sharpen like her claws.  A snake coiled ready to strike.

Graves’ wand is tucked away in her vest, and she wonders if she could draw it fast enough if the woman launches at her throat.

She thinks of the book Tina sent her, written by Theseus’ younger brother.  She’s had nothing to do but read during her spare time.  Her family’s sloop is dry docked at the marina, and she’s never been a confident enough sailor to handle it on her own.  She’s not her mother.

Despite reading Newt Scamander’s book from front to back over three times, Graves still has not idea what manner of creature this woman is.  Her pale legs are long and glorious, but they’re still legs, and going by the way Graves had to rescue her from drowning, she’s no merperson.  She’s beautiful enough to be Veela, but the distinct lack of feathers and flames—despite her anger—has Graves dismissing that train of thought.

“Where is it?”  The woman demands, her voice demanding and pronounced.  The words are clear, like spoken English is her native tongue.  “What have you done with my diadem?”

“I never took your diadem?”  Graves says it like it's a question.  Her palms are still raised, eyes open wide hoping to convey her innocence.  “I saw you splashing about in the water, and figured you needed help.”

This seems to confuse the woman, and an all too human expression slides over her face.  She looks helpless, lost.

“Do you remember where you left it?  Perhaps you misplaced—”

“I did not _misplace_ the only thing that lets me return home,”  the woman spits, annoyance chasing away the confusion.

“Home?”  Graves asks.

The woman gestures to the wide expanse of the ocean, huffing like she thinks Graves is an idiot.

“What does your diadem look like, I could help you search for it?”  She offers weakly, not understanding how a creature with legs could call the ocean home.

The woman scoffs, turning her head up and away.  “I have heard that tale a thousand times before.  What now?  You take me back to your cave, keep me there to bear your children while you leave each and every day, pretending to search for my diadem when all along you have it hidden beneath your pillow?  I think not.  You human men are all the same.”

Graves stares at her, dumbfounded.  She may be wearing a vest, and her hair is cut in the style of a man, but Graves’ clothes are soaking wet and they cling to the curves of her body.  There’s no way she could be mistaken for a man, unless the woman has preconceived notions of what a human man looks like.

“I’m not a man,”  Graves clarifies.

“Of course you are,”  she says unconvinced,  “You’re beautiful.  All Merrows know that human men are beautiful.  All the better to seduce and kidnap unsuspecting maidens.”

“You’re a Merrow,”  Graves says in realization, though it doesn’t explain the lack of a tail or her humanoid looks.  Graves would have never guessed Merrow.  According to Scamander, they’re supposed to have fish faces.  Looking at the ethereally gorgeous woman in front of her, Graves decides she most definitely does not have a fish face.  “And I am a woman.”

“Impossible.  Human women are hideous, why else would the men seek us out?”  She makes a face like she’s sucking on sour lemons.  “You are decidedly not hideous.”

Graves barely holds in her laughter, but she cannot help quirking a smile at the intentional compliment.  “If there’s one thing I’ve come to know about men, it’s that they always desire what they cannot have, rather than what is right in front of them.”

The woman still looks suspicious, but her eyes drift down to Graves’ arm, where the wound still trickles blood sluggishly.  Her expression turns sheepish, but she doesn’t apologize.  Graves rolls her eyes, and pulls out her wand.  A murmured healing spell has her skin stitched back together, good as new, and a drying charm has her clothes looking freshly pressed.

After tucking her wand away, she looks up, only to startle with how close the woman leans.  “What are you?”  She asks, eyes full of unparalleled wonder.

“Magic, as you are.”  Graves climbs to her feet, dusting off her trousers.  She offers her hand to the woman, hoping she’ll take it.  She cannot be seen wandering about the beach exposed like this, the police would arrest her for public indecency.

“I cannot use these as well as you do.”  The woman gestures sadly to her long legs.

“Very well.”  Graves shrugs.  Bending, she places an arm under the woman’s knees, the other behind her back.  A whispered strengthening charm, and Graves is lifting her with ease.  Her eyes widen, and she grips tight at Graves’ elbow.

“What are you doing?”  She demands, fear in her eyes as Graves carries her up the sand bank, back to her cottage.

“I won’t hurt you, and I definitely cannot impregnate you.  I swear.”  Graves smiles down at the beautiful woman in her arms.  Water still clings to her lashes, as eyes as dark as the ocean stare at Graves from beneath dark brows.

“You will not seek to eat my flesh for eternal life?”  She asks, still scared, looking for reassurances.

Graves shakes her head, holding the woman closer to her chest, wondering if someone has tried before.  “That’s a myth, besides,”  she says with a grimace,  “My kind live long enough.”

***

The woman, Graves soon finds out, is named Credence.  A strangely human—and Puritan—name for a creature of the sea.  Everything about the woman, from her wide eyed innocence, to her introspective quietness holds Graves’ attention.  She’s never met anyone quite as fascinating as her, nor anyone as physically intimidating, even if she doesn’t quite realize it.

Credence is tall, taller than her by at least a couple of inches, but with the way she hunches her back, one would think they’re the same height.  She always looks uncomfortable in her current skin.

They go out everyday, searching the shoreline for her diadem.

Once, after Credence had described it as best as she could, and Graves had a relatively clear picture in her mind of a crown of pearls and blood red coral, she tried to summon it.  Only after she had pried a red crustacean from her jacket—its other claw gripped around an oyster, tossing them both off the edge of the pier—did she realize she has her work cut out for her.

Credence is a fast learner.  She no longer walks like a newborn foal, but she often forgets that air doesn’t have the same properties as water.

Sometimes Graves is there to catch her when she lunges for something she should walk to reach, sometimes she isn’t.  Those times, Graves usually finds her with a nest of messy hair—sand and grass intertwined like it belongs tangled in the strands, a petulant grimace on her face.  Credence falls down a lot.

Graves has come to enjoy her company.  She’ll miss her dearly when they find her diadem and she leaves, returning to the ocean.  Perhaps she’ll visit, perhaps she won’t, who’s to say but the tide of the oceans and a ethereally beautiful Merrow.

***

Graves wakes in the middle of the night to the sound of the front door opening.  She pushes aside her covers and wraps a robe around her shoulders.  With slippers on her feet, and sleep pants wisping about her ankles, she walks into the living room.  The front door is wide open, leaving only the screen preventing insects from coming in.  Credence isn’t sleeping on the bed Graves transfigured from the sofa.  Her blanket is gone, and the sheets are wrinkled from restless dreams.  The century old floorboards creak beneath her feet as she walks out the door.

Credence stands at the shoreline, the blanket blowing behind her as she stares out upon the endless dark ocean, lit only by the moon’s light.  Graves steps out on the porch, leaning against a column, tugging her robe tighter around her body in the chilly night as she watches Credence’s melancholic longing.  Her long legs glow like the moon herself, arms wrapped tight around her torso, and Graves can practically smell the tears that must be streaming down her cheeks.

Graves goes back inside, leaving her to her private moment.  She lights the stove and makes two cups of tea, the herbal variety that Credence prefers.  She sits at the breakfast table and waits.  Credence comes in only a few minutes later, her cheeks wet, but she’s no longer crying.  She sees Graves sitting by the table, and slumps down in the other chair, shoulder still hunched unhappily.  Graves pushes the other cup over to her.

“Do you want to talk about it?”  Graves asks carefully.

Credence looks down, her finger fiddling with the weave of the blanket.  “I had a dream, Percy.”  She uses the nickname she had bestowed on Graves the moment she learned her first name.

“About the ocean,”  Graves concludes.

Credence shakes her head.  “My sister.  Tomorrow is her name day.  I was supposed to journey up the Hudson to see her, but the sun was setting and I wanted to see it.”   She sniffles, tears spilling over again, but just as fast, she dashes them away.  “I took my diadem off for one second, wanting to feel the sand beneath my toes, but some humans came down to the beach, and I couldn’t let them see me.”  She shudders, likely remembering the last time a human got their claws on her.  “I ran off and forgot it behind.  When I returned, it was gone.”

“The people you heard must have taken it.”  According to Credence’s description, the diadem is made of precious materials, anyone with a head on their shoulders would recognize its value.  Graves had checked with the sheriff that first day, but no one had brought it in.  “Can you recall anything about them?”  Graves asks hopefully.

Credence shakes her head and then shrugs, clutching even tighter at her blanket.

“I miss my sister.”

Graves looks at her sadly.  “I know, Credence, I miss mine too.”

***

Graves finally writes the letter two weeks after Credence first began living with her.  She’s been putting it off for the longest time, but they haven’t come even close to finding the diadem, Graves is starting to believe it’s a hopeless cause.  She’s just hoping Theseus’ brother knows more than what he included in his book.

“What are you doing, Percy?”  Credence asks, sliding up behind her, a hand on the back of her chair as she reads over her shoulder.  Graves cannot bring herself to tell Credence off for reading something she was clearly never given permission to.  It concerns her, and she clearly has a lack of understanding of personal space.

In the evenings, instead of sitting in her own armchair, she likes to curl up beside Graves with a book in hand, her cold toes nudged beneath her thighs.  The first time it had happened, Graves had stiffened terribly, but Credence had an utter disregard for how uncomfortable it had made her.  It reminded her of being locked away in her own damned closet.  Eventually though, she had somewhat gotten used to Credence’s octopus like tendencies, even appreciating the closeness when they’re reading.

She still doesn’t know how Credence learned to read, but she supposes they’re not far enough into their acquaintance for such revelations.

“Newton Scamander?”  Credence hums,  “Isn’t that the author of that book you have on your shelf?”

“Yes,”  Graves says, signing the letter with her usual cursive signature.  “He’ll know what to do about getting your tail back without the diadem.”

Credence frowns, but says nothing, her hand slips from Graves chair.  She’s nearly out the front door when Graves calls out to her.

“Would you like to go for a walk?”

Credence’s eyes gaze at her solemnly.  She says, “Yes, please.”

***

Graves walks with her hands in her pockets, as Credence runs in front of her.  She wears Graves’ clothes—trousers too short for her, and a white shirt that stretches obscenely over her ample chest.  Her strange outfit of discarded netting and what Graves eventually found out was shark leather, hangs hidden in her closet.  It smells like the ocean—overwhelmingly like salt, but with a faint hint of fishiness.

Like Credence herself, the scent isn’t cloying, it’s just there, a clue betraying where she comes from and who she really is.

Graves has been living in Provincetown for approaching on a year now.  Everything smells of salt and fish, but Credence comes from someplace darker, primal, a place few have ever been.

The only time Graves has ever felt the foreboding power of the ocean was when their mother took Dindrane and her sailing just before a storm.  Back then, she could feel the electricity in the air.  The waves had been over ten feet tall, aching to swallow them whole, but their mother had laughed, whipping her soaked hair from her face as she sailed single-handedly.

When they had returned back to the docks, her sister had cried inconsolably.  Their father had slapped their mother right across the face and made her promise not to take them sailing again when the weather was so treacherous.  Their mother had just grinned.

Credence doesn’t belong here, she belongs out in the ocean like her mother did, and when she leaves—because she _will_ leave—Graves will be alone once again.

“What is that?”  Credence asks, pulling her out of her thoughts.  Graves looks where she points, finding Ned Collins sitting half turned away from them on the beach beside his fishing boat, a large needle in hand as he sews his sails.

“It’s canvas for a sail,”  Graves says, bewildered.  Has Credence never seen a boat before?

“No I mean the animal sewing the fabric.  What manner of creature is it?”

“Uh…”  she ventures, rubbing a hand across the back of her head.  “That would be Ned Collins.  He’s a human male.”

“No, that’s impossible,”  Credence gasps, and Ned looks up at her exclamation.  Graves just raises a hand in greeting before taking Credence by the hand, dragging her off, before he gets up and tries to hold an actual conversation with them.

Graves has always suspected that he fancies her, despite her unconventional dress.  She appreciates his innocent attempts at flirting, even though she’s not interested.  She tends to avoid him now, he’s rather popular on the island, and she would rather not catch the ire of his admirers.

“What is that moss growing on his face?”  Credence demands, looking back over her shoulder with a grimace, even as Graves marches them away.

Graves snorts.  “That would be his beard.  Dear old Ned is in good need of a shave, it seems.”

Credence looks at her funnily for a long moment, before huffing petulantly and turning her head to the side.  Graves almost doesn’t hear what she says next, Credence speaks so lowly, but she does hear and it’s enough to have her in stitches.

“I don’t understand the appeal.  He’s hideous.”  Graves stares at her in wonder, before clutching at her side, laughing uncontrollably, while Credence grips a hand to her shoulder, looking on in worry.  “Percy, are you quite alright?”  She asks.

Graves wipes a tear from the corner of her eye.  She hasn’t laughed like that since a fleeing suspect had cast a bat-bogey hex on Tina, and even then she had waited until she was in the privacy of her office before letting even a single chuckle loose.  All this sun must be getting to her head.

“Be careful,”  Graves says,  “Don’t let the local girls hear you, they all fancy him.”

Credence frowns.  “I don’t see why.  He looks like a sea lion.”

Graves throws her head back and laughs.

***

The day Newton Scamander turns up on her doorstep is a day she never thought would come, but lo and behold.

“You could have just sent a letter.”  She leans against her doorjamb, arms folded across her chest, staring down Theseus’ little brother with a glint in her eye.  They have the same red hair and blue eyes, Graves notes.  Scamander shuffles his feet awkwardly, looking into the distance somewhere off her shoulder, not meeting her eyes.  A briefcase that Graves recognizes from old reports is held in his hand, and she glares at it with narrowed eyes.

He sees where she’s looking and says,  “I had the clasps repaired.”

“I should hope so,”  she huffs, turning her body to the side and letting him in,  “Credence is down by the water, she should be up shortly.”  Graves pulls out a chair for him at the breakfast table.

“Thank you,”  Scamander takes the seat, pulling the briefcase into his lap, looking around nervously.  Graves relaxes in the other chair.  Leaning back, her legs crossed, she eyes Scamander with a kind of quiet intensity she usually reserves for interrogations.

“How is Theseus doing?”  She asks.

Scamander shrugs bony shoulders, eyes now fixated on a scorch mark where Credence had placed a fiery hot skillet a few days back.  Her first attempt at cooking.  She had used too much salt, and Graves had been unable to eat it, but Credence had consumed both their portions all too happily.

“I’ve been busy with research in the Peruvian highlands, I haven’t seen him in at least a year.”  His eyes flicker to her, then away.  Graves rubs a finger across her mouth, and the motion makes Scamander stare even more intensely at the scorch mark.

Credence returns to the two of them with cups of tea in hand, Graves sipping hers, watching Scamander while he desperately looks anywhere but at her.  When Credence bursts through the door, one of Graves’ coats trailing after her, Scamander rises from his chair and turns to her, relief plain on his face.  Graves would feel insulted if she hadn’t purposely set out to make him feel as such.  Merlin, she dearly misses watching criminals squirm under her glower.

“Credence,”  Graves gestures between the two of them.  “This is Newton Scamander.  Scamander, this is the Merrow I was telling you about, her name is Credence.”

Credence approaches shyly, her hand outstretched.  “It’s lovely to meet you, Miss Scamander.”

“Miss?”  Scamander’s mouth flops open like a fish, floundering.

Credence turns to Graves, a helpless, wide-eyed look on her face.  “Don’t tell me I got it wrong again.”

“Don’t worry about it,”  Graves chuckles, bracing her hands behind her head,  “After all, this one is so much prettier than the last.”

Scamander turns a violent shade of red.  He really is Theseus’ brother.

***

Graves sits in front of her writing supplies, but instead of drafting her biweekly letter to Seraphina, she stares at the back of Credence and Scamander’s heads.  They’re bent together, delicate whisperings shared between them.  Graves can only make out murmured words, she doesn’t know what they speak of.  Scamander has a notepad, writing down all that Credence says, but still, their conversation is intimate.  They don’t look like a researcher and subject, they look like two lovers, backlit by the roaring fire that Graves had personally stroked.

She’s never been one for the futility of jealousy.  It’s a useless emotion, unproductive and confusing.  Usually, if she feels it stirring in her chest, she speaks to her partner.  Once everything is clarified, the feeling goes away, but Credence isn’t her partner.  To admit that she feels jealousy over Scamander’s closeness to Credence is tantamount to admitting that she has feelings for her.  Something terrible for a whole plethora of reasons.

She swears when she feels wet ink dripping down her fingers, leading to a growing puddle of ebony on her once pristine paper.  A spell has it cleaned up, good as new, though it doesn’t improve her mood.  When she looks up again, she finds Credence staring at her, her eyes dark and endless as ever, unreadable.

“Madam Graves,”  Scamander says, drawing her attention away from that hypnotic gaze.

“Just Graves,”  she corrects sternly, watching Scamander nervously fiddle with his quill.

He nods at her correction, saying,  “It seems I’m no help with your dilemma, though Credence has given me insight for the second edition of my book.  I had no idea Merrows were sexually dimorphic until we had our little chat.”

“The fish face is characteristic of the males of my species, the females tend to look as I do,”  Credence explains.  “According to Newt, while I’m on land, I resemble a human women perfectly.  Down to what lies beneath these clothes.”  She gestures down her body and her eyes dig into Graves like a trowel in soft earth.

“Not that I saw anything I wasn’t meant to,”  Scamander hurriedly clarifies,  “Merrows are similar to Selkies in many aspects.”

Graves clears her throat.  “What about the diadem, is there a way she can return to the ocean without it?”

Scamander taps the top of his quill against his bottom lip, smudging ink onto his pale skin.  “I don’t believe so.  It’s a part of her.  Losing it would be like ripping off a human’s arm, it doesn’t grow back, and nothing can replace it.”

“I was in the war, Scamander, we have prosthetics.”  Graves shakes her head at the poor analogy.  A missing limb can be replaced, however, gills and a tail cannot.

“I need my diadem, Percy,”  Credence says sadly,  “Each day I am without it is a day spent in pain.”

“You’re hurting?”  Graves asks, surprised.  Standing, she walks over to Credence, and her eyes seem to glow as she approaches.  She reaches for her, cradling her head in her hands, looking her over in concern.  “You never mentioned that you were in pain.”

“My legs ache some days, especially before storms.”  She shakes her head.  “I thought it was nothing at first, but it’s worsening.”

“Scamander?”  Graves asks sharply, looking to him for an explanation, or even a solution.  He’s the expert on magical beasts, he should know what’s happening to her.

“I don’t know,”  he says, helpless.  “This never occurs in Selkies.  They can live for years on land without any problems.”

“She is no Selkie,”  Graves spits, frustrated.  She needs, and wants answers desperately.  Scamander jerks back from her anger and Graves sighs, rubbing a hand over her face.  “I apologize, I didn’t mean to raise my voice.”  The day has been incredibly tiring, and to make it all worse, she never managed to finish her letter to Seraphina.

Newt smiles faintly, still not meeting her eye.  “It’s fine.”

Personally, Graves looks forward to a long night’s rest.

Later, when she hands Scamander a pile of bed linens, she realizes he’s taken Credence’s bed.

She finds Credence in her room, sitting on the edge of her bed, waiting.  She looks so vulnerable, so desperate, her mouth slightly open like she wants to say something.  Graves closes the door quietly behind her.  She kicks off her shoes, leaving them by the door.  Her bare feet pad quietly on the rug as she approaches, sitting beside Credence.

“What’s wrong?”  She asks, rubbing her hand on Credence’s bare knee.  She wears a simple shift that ends mid thigh.  It’s one of Graves’ old ones from her youth, before she decided to cut out anything even remotely resembling a dress from her life.  Credence must have changed into it while Graves was digging around in the linen closet.  It smells faintly of the cedar chest she pulled it out of, and has Graves wrinkling her nose.

Credence closes her eyes as Graves fingers make contact with her skin.  “They’re hurting again.”

Far away she can hear the thundering roar of the heavens.  A storm approaches Provincetown.

“Where does it hurt?”  Graves asks carefully, moving her hand up Credence’s thigh.

Credence sighs, “Everywhere.”

Graves frowns, steeling her resolve.  “Do you mind if I touch you more?”

“More?”  Credence asks with furrowed brows, eyelashes casting long shadows on her cheekbones in the low light.

“I can massage some of the ache away, I used to do if for myself when I was still in training, after any particularly grueling lesson.”

Credence stares at her for just a moment, even though it feels incredibly long.  “Okay,”  she consents.

Graves waves her finger, and a warming salve flies from her attached bathroom, into her hand.  Credence lies down on the bed without her prompting, lifting her shift so it lies just at the tops of her thighs.

It’s too dark for Graves to see anything more, which she quickly decides is a very good thing.  Graves opens the jar, and scoops out a bit, the cloying scent of lavender and ginger flooding the small room.

She rubs her hands together heating the salve while Credence watches impassively.

The first touch of her hands has Credence intaking a sharp breath.  She rubs her thumbs along stiff muscles, fingers splayed over pale flesh.  When Graves glances up to see Credence’s reaction, she finds hooded eyes, watching her every move.  “How are you feeling?”  Graves asks, moving to the other leg, fingers kneading and pressing.

Credence sighs.  “Good,”  she says softly,  “That feels so good.”

Graves runs her hands down calves, massaging the tension from them.  Credence hisses when Graves rubs along the high arches of her feet.  She squirms on the bed, and her toes curl.  “Percy,”  she murmurs.

“Yes?”  Graves answers after a second too long, her palms running along the full length of her legs, back to her thighs.

“Percy,”  Credence repeats insistently.

Graves looks up from pale skin, and her mouth falls open.

Credence leans back on her elbows, her front half lifted off the bed.  Her face is in shadow, but her torso is not.  Graves sees everything from her gaping neckline, the upper ties come loose, to where the thin fabric stretches over her breasts, unable to hide just how much pleasure this is giving her.  Credence’s nipples stand at attention and Graves swallows dryly, her throat clicking.

“Come here, Percy, lay with me,”  she says.  Credence takes her by the biceps, pulling her up and over her body.

The salve smears on her clothes, but Graves could not care less.  With her arms braced on either side of Credence’ face, Graves gazes at the beautiful woman under her.  Credence reaches up, fingers trembling ever so slightly, to tuck back a strand of hair fallen from her usual style.  Graves captures her fingers, pressing a kiss to them.  Her heart swells as Credence smiles.

“What now?”  Graves whispers, her voice coming out husky and deep.  Her eyes must be all pupil by now, as dark as Credence’s.

“I could kiss you,”  Credence offers.

“You could do that,”  Graves breathes,  “Or we could sleep,”  she offers Credence a way out.  Once Graves begins what Credence has suggested, she doesn’t want to stop.  Sleeping, thankfully, seems to be the opposite of what Credence desires.  She lifts her other hand and wraps it around Graves’ collar, pulling her down.

Credence’s kiss tastes like a razor’s edge, all heat and challenge.  It reminds Graves of the first time they met, how her teeth had transformed from humanly blunt to vicious in a single second.  If she wanted to, she could have torn out her throat in a single motion, but she doesn’t want that, all she seems to desire is Graves’ lips.

Graves fumbles, one hand still holding up her body as the other slides into Credence’s black hair.  She fists her hand, tugging Credence’s head back, making a deep, hard kiss of it.  She is nothing if not thorough.  Credence seems to appreciate it.  She moans, a sound that comes from deep in her chest, and cants her head to the side.  There’s a learning curve, but Credence clears it easily.

Her palm slips down her chest, and Graves tears her mouth away, gasping as Credence kneads the flesh she finds.  Her expression is sly, coquettish, and she bites her bottom lip into her mouth, the skin wet and shining.  Credence slides her curious hand further down Graves’ stomach, fingers playing with her belt buckle.

Lightning streaks across the sky, illuminating the room for a short moment.  A heavy sheet of rain slams against the wooden siding, shaking the little cottage violently.  Graves pulls away reluctantly, Credence sits up, following her, but she puts a hand on her shoulder, saying, “I’ll be back, I have to close the curtains.”

With her hands tangled in the brocade, she looks out into the deep night, rain blurring her view.  Lightning flashes in the distance, high above the ocean, followed by the heavy rumbling of thunder.  It resonates in her bones.  She slides the curtains shut, then dresses for the night, all the while Credence looks on.

Returning to the bed, she slips into the cradle of Credence’s soft arms.  The charged moment has dissipated, as she feels the weight of the day settle over her.  Gentle fingers comb back her hair, nails scrubbing through her undercut.  She yawns, and tucks her face against Credence’s throat.

She drifts to the scent of salt, and something else that she cannot seem to place, but that seems so familiar.

 


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I had Timothy Dalton al la Penny dreadful in my mind while writing Mr. Warner.
> 
> Also, this chapter is half sailing porn, and half actual porn, cause that’s the way I roll.

When her father had laid on his deathbed—their mother holding his hand, a dark veil hanging over her face in preparation for the inevitable—Graves didn’t cry.  Her mother’s voice had been steady, her face eternally young, barely visible through the delicate lace.  She had looked at Graves with no feeling, as if she wasn’t with two of the three people she should love most in the world.

Dindrane had already left them, choosing to live as a no-maj, rather than face the discrimination of adult life as a squib.  She had sent a letter through no-maj ways to inform Graves that she would not be attending the funeral—that she wished their mother and her the best, but no, she was never coming back.

That same day, her mother had told her that she too would be leaving.

Once Graves’ father had died, nothing tethered her mother to this world, and she didn’t stay a second longer.  Graves had wanted to scream, to shout.  She needed to understand why she wasn’t enough.  Wasn’t she a good daughter?  Didn’t her mother love her?

As it had turned out, love has nothing to do with the wills and whims of the aos sí.

Her mother is still alive—somewhere—but she isn’t coming back, and as far as Graves is concerned, she’s dead.

***

It’s only after Scamander leaves, apparating away on their doorstep, that Graves realizes that they have no more food in the house.  The last time she checked, her icebox had been full, stocked to the brim.  She bets those creatures in Scamander’s briefcase had something to do with all those empty shelves.

The walk to town takes a half hour.  It would have been instantaneous, but Credence dislikes apparition.

Provincetown’s narrow streets are of locals going about their evening business, the setting sun casting a pink glow over the buildings.  Credence clutches at her legs as she walks.  Graves hates how much pain she’s in, but there's little she can do about it, short of rubbing them in public.

They claim a table at the Whaler’s Wharf, the fanciest dining establishment in Provincetown.  Graves likes to come here, regardless if she has company to impress.  The food is good, even if Martha is as insufferable as ever.

“Miss Graves,”  Martha says with a smirk as she slides up to their table, “You brought a friend, I see,”  Her eyes fix on Credence.

She wears one of her mother’s old dresses—a bit old in style—instead of Graves’ clothes, so to dissuade rumors of two sapphists living together in sin.  Going by the fact that Graves can practically hear the gears turning in Martha’s head, Credence’s dress isn’t helping in that aspect.

“Martha, I’ll have my usual,”  Graves says, not even looking at the menu,  “Credence?”  She asks, smiling at that head of black hair.  Her face is turned, staring at the slate board, chalk writing proclaiming today’s specials.

“The bou… lia… bass?”

“The bouillabaisse,”  Martha corrects,  “Good choice, gal.  Tommy’s just made up a fresh pot.”

After Martha has flounced off to the kitchen—as much as a big woman like her can flounce—Credence turns to her, something like panic in her eyes.  “What on earth is a bouillabaisse?”

Graves chuckles, resting her chin on her hand.  “You’ll soon find out.  Considering your usual diet, you’ll enjoy it just fine.”

Credence gazes around the restaurant.  She appears to be puzzled by the choice of decor.  Graves cannot blame her, she doesn’t understand Martha and Tommy’s love of taxidermied fish on plaques, glass eyes staring lifelessly down at the patrons.

They eat in companionable silence, Graves sipping her drink while watching Credence devour the fish stew, as if she hasn’t eaten in a week.

Her spoon clatters against the table, and when Graves looks up to ask what’s wrong, she finds Credence staring over her shoulder, her face white—like she’s seen a ghost.

“Credence, darling?”  Graves asks, glancing over her shoulder to see what has startled her so.

Mr. Warner sits at a table across the restaurant with his mistress.  They’re dressed to the nines, evidently out for a night on the town. Their age difference is even more startling with the woman dressed as a flapper, and Mr. Warner wearing a suit style popular a generation ago.  What has captured Credence’s attention, however, is the strings of pearls and coral woven through the woman’s blonde hair.  When Graves had pictured the diadem, she imagined it would look more like a crown, rather than a headdress.

The sound of creaking wood has Graves grabbing at Credence’s wrist, stopping her unsheathed claws from digging gouges into the table.  Her pupils are wide and Graves can make out a hint of sharp teeth.  She looks ready to launch herself across the restaurant to reclaim what is hers.

Graves can only hope to convince her of how terrible an idea that would be.

Graves rubs a thumb across her pulse, hoping to calm her down.  Eventually, Credence’s gaze slips to her.  She hisses,  “The thief sits right over there, my diadem—”

“She doesn’t know what it is, she a no-maj,”  Graves whispers hurriedly,  “She has no idea.  You cannot just rip it from her, the Sheriff will arrest you in a heartbeat.”

“I don’t care.  I need it back now,”  Credence’s nails lengthen, and Graves wraps her hands around her wrists, squeezing tightly.

“Let me talk to them, I’ll see if I can get this straightened out.”  She looks at Credence sharply.  “Stay here.”

Graves schools a pleasant smile on her face as she walks over.

She hasn’t ever purposely sought out Mr. Warner in her life.  He’s owned the mansion beside her cottage since before Graves was alive, but they’ve only spoken a handful of times.  Usually only greetings when they run into each other on the beach, and once when she had found out from Martha that his wife had passed away, and she offered her condolences.  Her mother used to compete with him in single-handed sailing.  He was the only one who could ever stand up to her prowess.

They’re neighbours, and that is all.  She has not idea how to begin broaching the subject of the diadem.  She assumes that claiming it as hers would be the wrong move to make, everyone in Provincetown is well aware of her distinctly unfeminine tastes.

“Excuse me, ma’am,”  Graves says with a smile, addressing the woman, whose name she cannot recall for the life of her,  “My friend was just admiring your headpiece,”  She smiles over at Credence who looks like she’s come prepared for murder.  Graves’ smile falters for only a second before she turns back to the woman, grinning so widely she feels her jaw creak.  “Can I ask where you got it?”

The woman turns to Mr. Warner, a questioning smile.  “Olly?”

“Go ahead, Audrey, we have nothing to hide.”

That alone has Graves worried.  If they had found the diadem, they should have brought it to the Sheriff’s department, it could have belonged to any folks living along the coast.  To wear it out in public like this, only for someone else to claim it would bring shame upon Mr. Warner.  Something he already wears like a shroud.  The townspeople are not fond of him waiting barely a month after his wife had died to take it up with Audrey.  As far as Graves knows, he’s a proud man.  The talk must be eating him up inside.

The must have found the diadem in a terrible state, and assumed it didn’t belong to anyone.  Considering that Credence lives in the ocean, and from what her other clothes had looked like, Graves can already imagine its state when they found it.

“It was washed up on the beach, would you believe that?”  Audrey says excitedly.  “It was absolutely covered in filth and barnacles, had these little mussels growing on the pearls.”  She makes a disgusted face.  “It must have been in the ocean for such a long time.”

“The moment I saw it, I knew exactly what it was,”  Mr. Warner says proudly.  “I had it sent back to Boston for cleaning, and it just arrived today.  Your friend has good taste, Miss Graves.”

“She does, doesn’t she,”  Graves says with a faint grimace that hopefully doesn’t come across.

“Olly says it is eastern,”  Audrey smiles at Mr. Warner, folding their hands together.  “A Polynesian princess must have lost it in the ocean a world away, and the currents brought it here.  It was just our luck to find it on the beach.”

Their good luck, and Credence’s terrible luck.  She licks her lips.  She dreads what she has to ask.  She already knows their answer, but she must anyway, for Credence’s sake.

“My friend likes it so much, I was wondering if I might purchase it from you?”

Mr. Warner, looks at her, surprise and indignation warring in his expression.  “Percival Graves,”  he chides, using her full name.  “We both know your mother was my friend, but that doesn’t mean you can ask anything of me and I will give it.  I am certainly not short on funds that I need to sell my belongings.”  His eyes shift over to Credence for a short moment, brows dipping.  “If your _friend_ insists on coveting that which does not belong to her, maybe you are in need of a better one.  Perhaps one that is more appropriate for your sex.”

Percival blushes up to her ears, ashamed, even though she has no reason to be.  The diadem belongs to Credence, but there’s no way she can explain that to Mr. Warner without him thinking she’s insaner than everyone already believes.  The town gossips about her preferences, yes, but inversion among women has always been seen as something unfortunate, not criminal, as it is among men.

“I noticed the _The Sluagh_ is still in dry dock,”  Mr. Warner says, abruptly bringing up Graves’ sloop, changing the topic,  “Have you thought about launching her before the season ends?”

Graves shakes her head distractedly, already looking towards Credence who watches their conversation with a nose flared in fury.  All the features that mark her as inhuman, are thankfully put away.  “I cannot do it on my own.”

“I can help, I have people to do it for me.  We have a few races coming up soon, and if you register, we could see if you truly are your mother’s daughter—”

“Please excuse me,”  Graves says abruptly when she notices Credence climbing out of the booth, marching towards the door, obviously limping.  Graves watches her, helpless.

“Of course,”  Mr. Warner says, disappointed.

Graves tosses more than enough no-maj money on the table to cover the cost of the meal, plus a generous tip, then she runs after Credence.

She catches up to her just as she’s stomping along the docks.  Graves would have missed her in the dark, if she hadn’t passed under a gas lamp.  She’s fast, even with a horrible limp, her face twisted in pain, and Graves is panting by the time she touches her elbow.

Credence whips around, a look of such potent fury on her face, it makes Graves quiver in her boots.

“You are a knave, Percival Graves,”  she spits, poking at her chest, bruisingly,  “A lying trickster of a woman.”

“He would not sell it to me,”  she says helplessly.

“You are magic, are you not?”  Credence argues, voice wobbly with unshed tears,  “Can you not just take it from her?”

“I cannot steal it from them, they would know it was me.  I’m no longer the director, I’m not allowed to perform unauthorized memory charms.”  Graves pleads, trying to pull her closer into her arms, wishing that she would understand.  At least now that they know where her diadem is, they can figure out a way to get it back.

“You must take me for a fool,”  Credence wrenches her arm out of Graves’ grip, stumbling back, and rubbing her arm across her face, dashing away tears that flow unhindered down her cheeks,  “I know your plan.”

“Plan?  What plan?”  Graves frowns, not understanding what Credence is going on about. “Come on, let’s go home, we’ll discuss this in the morning.”

“I cannot believe I fell for your false reassurances!”  Credence cries.  She sounds like her heart is breaking, and all Graves wants to do is take her in her arms and kiss her worries away.  She looks around, pulling them out from under the gas light, into the shadows of a dry-docked boat.  Credence struggles in distress and it makes Graves feel horrible.

“Darling?”  Graves asks, dropping Credence’s arm before she pulls away to give her space.  “Please tell me what’s wrong.”

“I know what you’re doing, you’re just like the rest of them, trying to keep me like some kind of exotic pet!”  With those words, Graves feels her heart break, but Credence continues.  “You wouldn’t let me take it, even though it was right there.  The Sheriff couldn’t find me if he tried, he would have to search the entire ocean.”

“You cannot reveal yourself to humans, Credence,”  Graves says weakly.

“I do not have to follow your laws,”  she snarls,  “I do not belong in your world, and I most certainly do not belong to you!”  Credence pushes her hard enough that she stumbles, her back hitting the side of the boat.  She sends one last withering glance Graves’ way, before turning on her heel and marching off.

Graves thumps her head against the boat, feeling like she could use a nice stiff drink.

Tilting her head, she reads an all too familiar name painted on the oilcloth covering.

 _The Sluagh_ stares back at her, letters cursive and imposing, painted by her mother’s hand.  She had named the sloop after the spirits of the restless dead.  Her mother could make this boat fly through the water towards the finish line like the faerie host flies across the night sky on all Hallow’s Eve.  Her mother loved the ocean, and she loved this boat, even though she didn’t take it with her when she abandoned them for the Otherworld.

When she birthed Graves, she cursed her with this centuries long lifespan.  The years will pass, while she watches the people she loves grow old and die.  Dindrane refuses to speak to her, using her longlasting youth in different ways.  Eventually, MACSUA will demand that Dindrane stops making movies when she’s sixty and she still looks thirty, or even before then.

Perhaps Graves saw a way of circumventing that inevitability in Credence.  Merpeople have especially long lifespans, but still, Graves never once wanted to take her prisoner.

Graves never found out if that’s what her father did to her mother.  Perhaps that is for the best, Graves doesn’t know if she could handle the truth.  Her mother wanted her to think that she fell in love with her father, and chose to stay in the human realm to make a family.  Graves has her doubts, especially when considering the easy way her mother abandoned her after his death.

She doesn’t want Credence to think she’s holding her prisoner, but she also doesn’t want her to leave.  Graves would never hold anyone against their will—as Grindelwald had done to her—she’d rather Credence make her own decision.

She returns home.

Opening the door, she expects an empty house, instead she finds Credence on her transfigured bed, her back to Graves.  She isn’t sleeping, though she’s pretending to be.  She’s holding herself stiff like ice.  Graves doesn’t even think she’s breathing.

She rubs a hand over her brow and walks into the kitchen.  Pulling a bottle of whiskey from under the cabinet, she pours herself a couple of fingers, planning on taking it to her bedroom, to give Credence space.  Just as she shuts the cabinet, a knock sounds on her front door.

Frowning, she goes to open it, finding Mr. Warner with his chest rising and falling like he ran here once he saw Graves return.

“Mr. Warner, what are you—”

He interrupts,  “Miss Graves, I think you should enter the race.  In fact, I insist.”

She purses her lips, ready to shut the door in his face.  She really isn’t in the mood for this.  “I told you, I’m not interested.”

“Hear me out!”  He pleads, just as Graves slams the door shut.  The knocking starts up only a few seconds later.  “Miss Graves, please!”  He calls desperately.

Graves growls under her breath, knowing he isn’t going to give up.  She yanks open the door again.

“I dreamt of your mother last night,”  he says hurriedly, realizing he only has a few moments to explain himself before Graves tires of him,  “She came to me as I was sleeping, and it was like she was right beside me again.”

His phrasing has her frowning.  She knew her parents had their share of affairs.  Dindrane—with her red hair so unlike either of their parents'—figured that out long before Graves ever did.

She would have never guessed that her mother’s greatest sailing rival counted among those affairs.

“She told me to launch _The Sluagh_ .  That it’s what _you_ needed.”

She sighs, rubbing a hand over her forehead.  “It was just a dream, Mr. Warner.”

He shakes his head.  “No, it wasn’t.  Do you honestly think that I didn’t notice something was strange about her?  Your mother was in her thirties when we met, and I knew her for over twenty five years, but she never aged a day.”  Graves opens her mouth, but Mr. Warner holds up his hand.  “Now, I’m not going to ask for an explanation, but I know that when I dream of her, it means something.”

“This has happened more than once?”  Graves asks with wide eyes.

“Of course,”  Mr Warner says easily,  “Doesn’t she come to you?”

She does not.  Graves would remember if she did.  She says nothing, and Mr. Warner continues.

“She told me that you need to be in this race,”  he says, but Graves is still skeptical, and she shows it.  He scratches his chin.  “I don’t know how else to convince you.  You have money, but the prize I’m offering is rather large.”

“Wait, _you’re_ offering the prize?”  Graves asks.  “This is your race?”

Mr. Warner nods.  “It is.”

Graves hears the floor creak as Credence rises from the bed.  With her in mind, Graves stands up straight, and says,  “I will participate in your race, but if I win, I don’t want the money, I want the diadem.”

“The what?”

“The pearl and coral headpiece you gave to your Audrey.  If I win, I want it.  That’s my only condition.”

Mr. Warner purses his lips, but nods once, grimly.  “You win, and it’s yours.”  He raises a finger, cautioning.  “If you win.  But remember, only your mother could beat me in a race, don’t get too cocky, Miss Graves.”

“Like you said,”  she says, strong and determined.  She can feel Credence’s eyes on her.  “I am my mother’s daughter.”

***

When she closes the door—Mr. Warner walking back to his mansion—she rests her forehead against the wood, waiting for Credence to say something.  She doesn’t have to wait long.

“Your mother, she was like me?”  Credence asks.  Graves turns around, leaning against the door as Credence walks forward, the blanket wrapped around her shoulders.  Her presence alone pierces through all of Graves’ defences.

“She was aos sí,”  Graves says, watching the moonlight play off Credence’s lovely features.

“The long lived people of the barrows,”  Credence says knowledgeably,  “Where is she now?”

“She left,”  Graves says, her voice cracking.  She wants to reach for Credence.  To pull her closer, maybe to bury her face in the comfort of her warm skin, but she doubts Credence would appreciate that.

Credence stares at her for so long, she wonders if time has frozen.  Then, like a spell breaking, she nods her head, turning around and walking back to her bed.  “Get some sleep,”  she says to Graves,  “You’ll need it if we are to launch your boat tomorrow.”

***

When the crane lifts the _The Sluagh,_ gently placing her in the water, Graves watches with her heart in her throat.  She hasn't sailed in over ten years and seeing her sloop bobbing among the other boats in the marina makes her miss her family with a heavy ache.

“That wasn’t so hard, was it?”  Mr. Warner claps her on the shoulder.  “We’ll get a tug to take you out of the harbour.”

Credence stands in front of the sloop, as the riggers attach her new sails, cream coloured and lighter than the ones her mother used in the past.  A symbol for the progress of technology.

“What do you think?”  Graves asks as she joins Credence.

“It seemed larger on land,”  she says with a furrowed brow, just as the wind blows in from the east, her black hair floating about her face.

“It’ll seem even smaller once we’re out on the ocean.”  Graves offers her a hand, and Credence takes it.  She helps her climb over the safety line.

They sit in the cockpit in silence as the tug takes them out to the open ocean, huffing a thick cloud of black smoke every so often.  They’ll need it to bring _The Sluagh_ back to the marina.  Graves doesn’t think she’ll be able to do that kind of precise maneuvering on her own.

After relaying her plans to the tug operator, he salutes them, and chugs off back to shore, leaving them alone with each other, the wind, and the waves.

“You don’t have to do anything,”  Graves says, standing up and stretching her arms behind her head, there’s nothing worse than a cramp whilst in the midst of sailing.  “Just sit at the stern, and try not to fall overboard.”

“The same goes for you, Percy,”  Credence says innocently, even though her smile is anything but.  “Remember, in this form I cannot swim, so no one will be there to rescue you.”

Graves blinks at her, surprised.  She lifts her finger, pointing into the cabin.  “There’s a kisby ring in there, please don’t try to jump in after me.”

Credence snorts, then turns away, looking out into the surf.  “I never said I would.”

Graves could easily leave it at that.  She could let Credence stay angry at her, even when she has not reason to be, or they could have a chat, and sort out what’s bothering her.  It isn’t just the diadem.  Credence knows Graves will try her best to get it back for her.  Something else is making her so acerbic.

“What’s wrong?”  Graves asks, sitting down beside her, close enough for their knees to touch.  Credence doesn’t even turn to look at her, she still stares out at the waves.  “Credence, please.”

“I’m scared,”  she says, whipping her head to look at Graves, anger and frustration pulling her brows together.  “I’ve never been scared of water before.”

Graves reaches out, and when she doesn’t pull away, she tugs her into an embrace.  Credence’s hands grip at her vest, wrinkling it.  “You almost drowned, it’s only to be expected.”

“I was born to thrive in water, Percy.”

“And you do,”  She reassures, petting a hand down the back of her head, soothing,  “You will get used to it again, and I will help you get your tail back.  Soon you’ll return to swimming, like a fish to water.”

Credence chuckles darkly against her throat.  After a moment, Graves tries to pull away, but Credence still clings to her.

“I’m sorry,”  she says.

“You have nothing to be sorry for, your worries were founded,”  Graves reassures.  “You were just being careful.”

“I ruined what we had,”  Credence whispers.

“No, you didn’t.”  Graves closes her eyes.  Exhales.  She says,  “My feelings for you remain the same.  As do your feelings for me, I hope?”

Credence offers a weak smile.  “That hasn’t changed.”

“Good,”  Graves says, pulling out of the embrace, rising again.

“Percy?”  Credence follows after, standing so she towers over Graves.  She presses the gentlest of kisses to her lips.  “Thank you.”

“For what?”  She asks, staring up at Credence wondrously.

“For everything.”

***

Her boots lay discarded in the cabin as Graves walks towards the bow in bare feet.  The wind isn’t favouring them, and they move at only a few knots.  The sails are taut, but not as taut as they could be.  She ducks under the boom, finding Credence sitting on the deck, wearing a pensive expression, her legs dangling over the edge.  She’s changed into the netting outfit that she pulled from the closet that morning.  Credence had said that she feels more comfortable in it, and since there is no one around to see her wearing it, it doesn’t matter if she scandalizes the dolphins.

Graves sits beside her.  “How are your legs?”  She asks, running a hand over Credence’s knee.

“It’s not as bad out here,”  she says with a sad smile,  “But they always ache, Percy.”

Graves rubs her hand over Credence’s calf, watching as she closes her eyes.  Graves’ fingers work, trying to take the pain away.

[tumblr link to art](http://iamonlydancing.tumblr.com/post/163534720842/the-female-merrows-are-very-beautiful-and-like)

“Percy,”  she groans, her legs parting ever so slightly, until...  Graves flushes, and she fumbles, her hand slipping.  She drops Credence’s leg, and her heel thumps against the hull.  Her eyes open, and she looks at Graves in confusion.

“You aren’t wearing knickers,”  Graves says dumbly.

Credence looks at her as if she’s the strange one.  “Of course not.”

“What do you mean by ‘of course not’?”  Graves asks, parroting her words back.

Credence shrugs.  “I don’t like them, and you said I could wear my clothes, so I’m wearing my clothes.  I don’t need knickers when I’m in the ocean.”

Graves gapes at her.  “That’s because you have a damned tail when you’re in the ocean, Credence!”

Credence raises her eyebrows.  “I never made you out for such a prude, Percy.”

“I’m not a prude!”  She defends, somehow getting herself entangled in this pointless argument.  She is a grown woman; proud of her body, and her desires.

“Prove it,”  Credence says, her smile stretching, teasing.  She spins around, and looks at Graves challengingly, hopping down to the cockpit.

“Prove it?”  Graves echoes blankly as Credence leans a shoulder on the cabin.  She trails a singular finger down her thigh, lifting a leg and bracing it against the higher deck, showing off all that she has to offer.

“Don’t you like what you see, Percy?”

Graves is kissing Credence before she even registers it.  With one hand placed on her chest, Graves pushes her back against the cabin wall, capturing her mouth.  Her answering moan sounds like everything Graves has ever wanted.  She licks into her, salt on her tongue, desire on her breath.  She stands on her toes and kisses all sense out of both of them, until Credence sags against the wall, her hands wrapped around Graves’ elbows.  Only then does she pull back, feeling such beautiful satisfaction as Credence chases after her, eyes lidded with lust.

“Let me taste you, darling?”  Graves asks hoarsely, deliberately trailing a finger down the centre of Credence’s chest, between her breasts, stopping right near the bottom of the netting.  Credence nods rapidly, eyes wide and mouth open ever so slightly.  Graves cannot resist.  She slides her thumb past those gorgeous lips, a plush tongue beneath the pad.  Credence’s lips close around the digit, cheeks hollowing, eyes burning.  Setting her afire.

Graves wraps her arms around Credence’s waist and lifts.  Surprised, she squawks, arms wheeling backwards, meeting the top of the cabin.  She lifts herself the rest of the way, and soon Graves is climbing on after, kneeling in front of her like she’s an altar to be worshipped.

Credence spreads her legs, making room between them.  Her hair spreads out beneath her, dark as the water around them.  Graves stares in wonder, as Credence’s hand trails through her greying hair.  Fisting the strands, she brings Graves’ head down to hers.  As she kisses Credence, she shifts her knee until—

Credence gasps, and Graves swallows down the sound.

She kisses Credence as she moves her knee in circles.  Graves doesn’t care that she’s dirtying her trousers.  She only wants to give her pleasure.  Credence throws her head back, thumping against the polished wood, neck stretched out long and pale.  She lets loose a gorgeous whine, fingers scrambling along the wood, her other hand tightens almost painfully in Graves’ hair, but she cannot find it in herself to care.

A distracting flapping comes from above them, and she glances up.  The mainsail sags, quaking in the wind.  Graves was so consumed by Credence, she sailed right into the wind.  The waves beat gently against the hull as they sit in irons, unmoving.

“Damnit,”  she swears in frustration.  Pulling back, she slides off the cabin top.  Credence sits up, looking after her, eyes still clouded with lust.  Graves shakes her head.  “Lie back down, I don’t want the boom knocking you off the boat.”

“Hurry back,”  Credence says, her voice hoarse.

Graves releases the jib, following the technique her mother taught her years ago.  The smaller jib sail catches the wind, even as the mainsail still flutters, but eventually it pushes them out of irons.  Graves swings out the boom over Credence’s body, completing a jibe.

The mainsail hangs off the side, and soon they’re sailing broad reach, the wind catching them on angle from behind.  If they sail too far west, they’ll end up in Plymouth, so they’ll head back towards Provincetown for a bit, then see if the wind picks up again.

Once they’re steadily cruising, Graves heads back over to the cabin.  Credence leans on her elbows, now that the boom is far enough away, watching Graves’ approach, her legs spread wide and obscene.  She grins as Graves grabs her by the ankles pulling her down until her ass hangs off the side of the cabin.  She giggles in delight, laughter which quickly turns to a hiss as Graves seals her mouth over her sex.

Credence’s thighs press against her ears, legs quivering as Graves licks and sucks, loving the taste of her, the warmth of her body.  She digs her fingers into Credence’s ass, sucking the sensitive flesh of her inner thigh into her mouth, before diving back in.

Credence’s cry of release is so loud and brilliant, it makes Graves grin.  She presses a chaste kiss to the soft skin above dark hair, her nose nudging Credence’s navel.

“Percy,”  Credence sighs, slipping off the cabin, bare feet thumping against the wooden deck,  “Come here.”

Graves slides into Credence’s arms.  Before she knows it, she’s spun around, her hands braced against the cabin wall.  Credence presses up along her back, and an arm wraps around her waist, right under her breasts.  Credence’s hips cradle Graves’ ass, and she lets out a shuddering sigh as Credence’s other hand drops to the bottom of her vest, undoing the last few buttons.

She pulls open her pants, and Graves tips her head back on Credence’s shoulder.  She bites her lip as her shirt is untucked.  Credence places her lips on her neck, as she finally slips her hand into Graves’ pants.

Her eyes roll back in her head.  The heel of Credence’s palm rubs her flesh deliciously, rough, and not at all gentle.  Good, Graves doesn’t want gentle.  Soon she’s rolling her hips, guiding Credence where she wants her—how fast she wants her—chasing that release.

Credence licks a long stripe up her neck, and Graves closes her eyes, shuddering, loving this playful side of her.

 _The Sluagh_ crests, then dips the moment she does.  She sags in Credence’s arms, boneless, feeling so damn satisfied.  Credence kisses her temple playfully, then her brow, then her cheekbones.  Soon she’s peppering kisses all over her face.  Graves pushes her away, laughing.

“I really enjoyed that,”  Credence says with a wide grin.

Graves smiles.   “So did I.”

***

The day of the race, Graves goes out to her front porch, a cup of tea in hand, a robe tied around her waist.  She climbs down the creaking wooden steps, walking to the shore.

With wet sand between her toes, she looks out upon the surf.  She scans the horizon slowly, until she feels an equal amount of wind on both sides of her face, stronger than the last few days.  The wind direction may change later on, but for now, it prophesies an interesting race.  She takes a sip of her tea, then goes back inside.

Credence sits at the breakfast table, a book in hand, toast in the other.  She wears nothing but one of Graves’ shirts, more specifically, the one she was wearing yesterday.  Her legs cross over the other, displaying her gorgeous thighs, bites and kiss marks all over the flesh, showing just how much Graves appreciates them.  She leans over, hands on each of Credence’s shoulders.  Stealing a bite of her toast, she presses a kiss to her cheek.

“For good luck,”  Graves says.

“I’ll show you good luck,”  Credence says, quirking a brow.  Lifting her leg, her toe touches the simple knot holding Graves’ robe closed.  She tugs, and it comes undone.

Instead of taking responsibility for what she’s done, she just looks up and down, chewing her toast with dark eyes.

Credence swallows her final bite, saying,  “Delicious.”

Graves rolls her eyes and ties up her robe again.  When Credence gets up to wash her plate in the sink, Graves slaps her ass, and she jumps.

Graves grins mischievously.  “All’s fair, darling.”

***

Even while wearing a woolen sweater and an oilskin jacket—from her time in the war—the rising breeze coming off the ocean chills her to the bone.  She can already feel her fingers growing numb, even through her mother’s leather sailing gloves.

 _The Sluagh_ bobs in the marina as the riggers install her jib sail.

The safety harness around her waist feels heavy.  It too was her mother’s, purchased by Graves' father for when she sailed single-handed.  It isn’t as worn as the gloves.  Her mother only used it during races so as not to be disqualified.  When she was on her own, she never bothered with it.

Graves wonders if she would have considered slipping and falling off the boat into the dark ocean a blessing.

“My legs ache, Percy,”  Credence says, standing beside her on the docks.  She wears her mother’s old mink coat, and it suits her.  “Be careful, there’s a storm coming.”

Credence leans over and kisses her cheek chastely.  She smells overwhelmingly of the ocean, but underneath it all a sharpness that reminds her of nights spent in her mother’s lap, having stories read to her.  Credence smells of ozone, of something inhuman, not a part of this world—like her mother.

“I love you,”  Graves whispers as Credence pulls back.

She smiles sadly, dark eyes full of unknown emotions.  “I know you do.  That’s why you will win.”

_That’s why you will let me go._

Graves nods sharply, willing away tears that threaten to fall.  Mr. Warner walks over to them, Audrey at his side.  He wears the racing gear she remembers from her childhood, looking spry for a man in his late sixties.

“I wish you the best of luck, Miss Graves.”  Mr. Warner shakes her hand.

“You too, Mr. Warner.”  She smiles, and discovers she means every word.  It must be the wild blood from her mother, but she looks forward to this race.  Not only the finish, but the chase itself.  She’s going to enjoy this.

The other entrants stand before a board displaying the locations of the anchored buoys, placed in a triangular formation.  The course is rather simple.  It’s a speed race, rather than a skill one.  The fastest sloop that goes around all three buoys, making it to the finish line first, wins.  Minimal tacking required, except when going around obstacles.  The winner of the race will be determined by whomever can make best use of the wind.

As the tug is pulling her out to the racing grounds, she watches Credence standing on the docks, watching.  She wishes she could bring her, but sailing single-handed means only one person in each boat.  It doesn’t matter if Credence helps or not.  If she came along, that would be cause for disqualification.

Eleven sailboats wait by at the start, and when the horn goes off, fourteen sails rise and catch the wind.  Only three of them are using their jibs, Graves included.  It’s difficult and dangerous to sail using both sails with only one person on a boat, but Graves thinks she can handle it, and apparently so does Mr. Warner.

“Tough bastard,”  she grumbles under her breath, her arms flying, pulling out the line and fastening it around the winch.  She nearly stumbles as the wind catches her two sails, thrusting _The Sluagh_ forward.

She cannot see the other man who let out his jib, as Mr. Warner and her work to windward, their hulls skipping over the waves.  Perhaps his lines were too slack, and he’s already lost control.  She feels like her sloop could take off into the overcast sky at any moment.  She must be going at least twenty knots.

Mr. Warner reaches the buoy first, but Graves is close on his heels.  She jibes, ducking as the boom swings over her head, moving between the jib and mainsail ropes.  She finishes the maneuver in record time, the wind now coming up behind her as she rounds the buoy, heading to the second.

Mr. Warner runs into a bit of trouble when he drifts—meeting up with the others approaching the first buoy—and he lets down his jib, all the better to steer clear of them.

Graves manages to avoid them by a large margin.  Grinning wildly as she flies right on by, she blows him a kiss as she goes.

Her harness keeps her tethered to the safety jacklines, allowing her to move easily from the stern to the bow, without slipping and falling off.  Considering all the water splashing up onto the deck, and the fact that her trousers are soaked through, Graves cannot imagine sailing without it.  She shudders to think that her mother prefered to go without.

She’s rounding the second buoy when she slips on the wet deck, falling back into the cockpit.  She blindly grabs the safety line, stopping her from bashing her head open on the winch.  By the time she shakes off the near-death experience, her sails have gone slack, bustling in the heavy wind.  She has to furl her jib to prevent it from thrusting her off course, and by the time she wrangles her mainsail, Mr. Warner and a few others have sailed right on by.

“Fuck!”  She swears, kicking off her boots.  She might as well go barefoot, there’s less chance of her slipping again.  Pushing her hair out of her face, she makes a quick decision that will either win her the race, or, if luck is not on her side, sink her boat.

She unfurls the jib, thinking of Credence.  This time, she won’t lose it.

 _The Sluagh_ flies, the wind whistling in her ears as she’s thrust forward.  Soon she’s passing all the others with their single sails.  She’s chasing Mr. Warner, snapping at his heels.  He obviously sees her coming, because as they round the first buoy again, he lets down his jib.  Graves takes it for the compliment it is.

They’re neck in neck, fighting to overtake each other, and it’s like no other boats are out on the water.  It’s just Mr. Warner, her, and the ghost of her mother.

She jibes, and as she goes around the second buoy again, she overtakes him.  She shouts for joy.  It’s just one more round the first buoy before she passes the finish line.  She can almost picture the look on Credence’s face when she hands over her diadem.

A wave crashes into her, but she holds her lines firm, sputtering and blinking salt water out of her eyes.  The wind is piercing and relentless, and as she jibes round the final buoy, it abruptly shifts directions.  Her sails flutter for just a second until she adjusts them, but it’s too late, and both her and Mr. Warner drift off course, straight into the other boats’ path.

The waves roar and her ears pop, but she holds her course.  She tacks, ducking, as she swings the boom, dodging another sloop by only a few feet.  She doesn’t know where Mr. Warner is, but at this point, she’s just trying to stop from crashing.

She’s moving _The Sluagh_ in a zigzag pattern, dodging around the other competitors, beating to windward.  She should be scared out of her mind, but she’s still got her jib up, and instead of feeling terrified, she’s exhilarated.  She finally understands how her mother feels.  She’s standing on that ledge—where even one wrong move can knock her into the abyss below—it's the most beautiful feeling in the world.

She screams as she crosses the finish line, throwing her head back and shouting to the heavens in unbridled joy.

Looking out over the stern she sees Mr. Warner steadily approaching the finish.  He chose to avoid the chaos instead of diving right into it as Graves did, taking the longer path.  He crosses minutes after she did, and as he passes by _The Sluagh_ he salutes her, shaking his head with a wide smile on his face.  Exactly what he used to do after her mother would beat him.  She smiles back.

With _The Sluagh_ anchored in the marina, the lines tying her to the docks, Graves vaults over the safety line, right into Credence’s arms.

With both her palms cradling Graves’ face, a brilliant smile pulling her lips up, she says,  “You did it.”

“I did it,”  Graves says excitedly,  “Fuck I really want to kiss you now.”

Credence chuckles, putting a finger over her lips.  “Wait until we get home.”

“Percival,”  Mr. Warner says, and Graves tears herself away from Credence’s embrace.  “Fair’s fair,”  he holds the diadem up, his grey eyes as kind as ever,  “I think this belongs to you.”

She takes it from his hands.

As her skin touches it—the slightly gritty pearls and smooth coral—she feels nothing.  She doesn’t know what she was expecting: some sort of spark, or flash?  But it doesn’t belong to her.  It isn’t magic for her.  It’s Credence’s magic—hers and her mother’s.  Graves may be half aos sí, but she doesn’t belong in their world.

She clutches the diadem to her chest, tears threatening to fall.  “Thank you, Mr. Warner.”

He nods.  “You’re very welcome, Miss Graves.”

***

Credence stands at the water’s edge, Graves holding her hand.  Her hair is woven with the diadem—a band of pearls and coral that stretch across her hairline, tangling with the dark strands.

“Are you ready?”  Graves asks, squeezing her hand.  Even as she asks, Graves doesn’t think she’ll ever be ready to watch Credence leave.

Credence leans over, pecking her cheek.  Her lips burn.

“I will miss you so much,”  Graves says, her voice cracking,  “Will you miss me?”

Credence smiles at her enigmatically.

“Credence?”  She begs.

Credence reaches out one pale, precious hand, and trails it down the side of Graves’ face.  Her gaze is fond, full of what Graves hopes is love.

“Percy, don’t you understand?”  she says softly, warmly,  “I can have you, and I can have the ocean.  I don’t have to choose, I can have you both.”

The kiss she presses against her mouth tastes like a beginning.

Her hands drop from Graves’ face, and as she steps further into the surf, her legs disappear from view, until they and Credence are not longer there.  Graves sighs, her heart hurting.

Just before she turns around to return to her lonely cottage, a long black tail splashes, absolutely drenching her from head to toe.  Graves stands still, water dripping from the tip of her nose.  Giggles float about her like the sweetest music.

Graves growls playfully, wading into the water, her hands searching out her teasing lover.

Yes.  Credence can have them both.

***

_One Year Later_

Graves writes a letter to Seraphina, nib scratching away at paper.

In her last letter, Seraphina offered her a consulting position at MACUSA, Graves is considering taking it.  She sold her Greenwich Village flat long ago, but she’s thinking of purchasing a house on Long Island.  If she agrees to what they’re offering her, she can apparate every day to work, and still live by the water.

She’d prefer a property with sandy beaches, and an ocean view she cannot see across.  She wants the water to seem like it stretches on forever.

Her door creaks opens, and a woman with legs that seem to stretch on forever walks past her threshold, dripping water on her floor.  Her smile is beautiful, even as the clothes she wears are strange.  A diadem of pearls and coral is clutched in her hands, and she hangs it from a special stand Graves ordered for her.

She walks forward, hips swinging as she looks at Graves from under her lashes.

“Credence,”  Graves says in greeting.

“Hello, my love,”  Credence says, sliding right into her lap, uncaring that she’s wetting Graves’ clothes,  “How was your day?”

Her kiss tastes of salt, and Graves loves her more than anything.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The course that Graves sails at the end is called the Olympic layout, it’s basically a triangle with three buoys, two of them you go around twice, the other, only once.

**Author's Note:**

> Leave a comment if you'd like, I always appreciate them!


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